


Warden and Commander

by sheepishwolfy



Series: Paper Birds [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff, Romance, Slow(ish) Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-09-02 14:26:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8671021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheepishwolfy/pseuds/sheepishwolfy
Summary: In the silence that had fallen after the rain, with the castle going night-still around him, Cullen had no choice but to think about Lyanna Amell. They had not parted on the best of terms, but that was in a different life, a life he didn't much like to remember. It had been years since he'd given much thought to the woman who became the Hero of Ferelden. When he had known her, many years ago in a far away tower, she had been only a youthful apprentice with whom he had shared a brief and ill-advised infatuation. Perhaps, with a second chance, it could be different.A sequel to Mage and Templar.





	1. Chapter 1

It was raining, those fat, cold droplets particular to Ferelden springtime. The commander had grown up with it, and despite long years in the comparative warmth of Kirkwall, would forever be accustomed to that freezing rain worming through the breaks in his armor, rolling in icy rivulets down his spine and pooling in his boots. He could, if he so chose, stand under the overhang of the nearby tavern roof. The soldiers would still be able to hear him, and he could catch a little of the warmth spilling through the open door.

Soldiers respected a commander who subjected himself to the same hardships as his men, though, and so Cullen was splattered in just as much mud and misery as the rest of them. Chilled to the bone, he paced behind the line of straw-stuffed practice dummies, eyeing strikes and stances.

“Tighten your grips!” he barked as someone's sword clattered into the mud, likely fallen from numbing fingers. “Corypheus will not stop for the cold, and neither will we. You will be as relentless as the demons, or you will fall. Again!”

Another half hour, Cullen told himself, and they could crowd into Skyhold's little tavern and warm themselves. He'd arranged for hot meals to be ready when the soldiers finished their daily drills, and though he couldn't show it, he was as eager as any of them to get out of the rain. Just another half hour--

A sudden cry went up along the wall, barely audible over the clang of swords and the ceaseless thud of rain but just loud enough to catch his attention. He looked to the watchtowers, in time to see a scout hurrying down the stone steps. She sprinted across the yard, up the stairs into the keep proper. Further away, in the lower courtyard, the heavy iron gate began to rise. He could hear the rattling clank of the chains.

Some dignitary had arrived, then. One of many in an endless parade of ambassadors and minor nobility, come to swear fealty to the Herald of Andraste. Soon enough the yard would be full of some new lord's entourage, the tavern swarmed with a flock of attendants. These nobles never traveled with fewer than fifty attendants. Best to call it a day, get his soldiers fed and dried before it was too late and there was nowhere left to sit.

“Alright, that's good enough for today,” Cullen called. As a grateful sigh went up around him, he began to herd the weary fighters towards the tavern. “Wring yourselves out and get something in your bellies.”

As the soldiers filed past, Cullen lingered a moment near the door, just long enough to let the heat and light soak through his plate. It was a terrible choice, he realized as he turned and started towards Skyhold's entrance. A brief moment's warmth made the cold just that much worse.

He trudged towards the lower courtyard, expecting to see a jumble of wagons and horses and porters collecting at the gate below. What he found instead, when he reached the wall and looked down, was a single mounted figure, hood drawn up against the downpour, plodding towards the stable. A mabari hound trotted close at the horse's heels.  
There was a splashing behind him, and he turned to see Josephine and Leliana hurrying past. Rather than her usual candle-bearing board, the ambassador clutched a parasol over her head; the spymaster relied only on her ever-present cowl to keep the rain away.

“Come, commander,” Jospehine called over her shoulder as she and Leliana started quickly down the steps. “I think you'll be most interested in our new arrival!”

“I could have continued my drills,” he muttered to himself, sighing and trudging after the two women. He couldn't quite bring himself to match their speed or enthusiasm to go dashing through the mud.

The stable was no warmer than the yard, but at least it was dry. Once inside, before giving any attention to their visitor, Cullen peeled off his gloves and tucked them into his belt; flexed cold-stiffened fingers. He slicked wet curls out of his eyes, hoping he might cut a somewhat intimidating figure but suspecting he looked more the half-drowned nug. Finally, he turned to see what sort of solitary visitor would require all three advisors' attention.

“I must say, we weren't expecting you to arrive so soon,” Josephine was saying. Whoever she addressed was facing away from them, bent and working at the straps of the dripping horse's saddle.

“We weren't expecting you to arrive at all,” Leliana amended. “You could have answered any of our attempted correspondence. It was like shooting black arrows into a moonless night, you’re impossible to find.”

Dennett hurried over, genially waving away the hooded figure and leading the steed towards a nearby empty stall. The visitor swept their hood back, revealing hair so black it shone nearly blue in the torchlight, coiled into a thick braid and pinned at the crown of her head.

“Come now, Leliana,” she said, turning to reveal a glimpse of Grey Warden armor beneath the cloak, stripes of gleaming silverite and blue-tinted leather. Her voice, an echo from another life, stopped Cullen's heart. “You of all people should have known to ask Alistair from the start. He always knows how to find me.”

“I did,” Leliana said flatly. “We went to him first. He claimed he had no idea.”

The Warden snorted. “Of course he did. Loyal to a fault, that man, but even ten years a king and he hasn't the sense the Maker gave a rock.”

“Lyanna,” Cullen said, half a question.

“Yes, ser... Maker's tits.” The curse dropped past her lips as soon as she saw him, her eyebrows shooting up in surprise. Her eyes flicked to Leliana, a silent accusation, then back to Cullen.

“I would have told you he was here,” the spymaster said dryly, “if you answered my letters. But you didn’t.”

“More the fool me, I suppose,” Lyanna murmured. Her eyes narrowed a nearly imperceptible amount.

Shifting uneasily in his armor, at an utter loss for words, Cullen glanced down at the sawdust strewn floor of the stable.

“Warden-Commander Amell,” Josephine cut in smoothly, stepping forward. “We were unprepared for your arrival, I'm afraid we have no quarters ready for one of your station.”  
Finally she pulled her gaze away from Cullen, and offered an easy shrug at Josephine. “I honestly don't care where you put me, sirrah...?”

“Josephine Montilyet,” she supplied cheerily. “You may call me Josie, if you wish.”

The Warden smiled warmly. “Lovely, Josie. You could put me in the most thread-bare of bunks in an overcrowded barracks, and it would be ten times the bed I've had in the last few months. Andraste's sake, just give me a hot meal and get me out of this damned rain.”

“We can absolutely arrange that, and do you one better than a threadbare soldier's cot. A private room, near the baths?” Josie offered, gesturing vaguely behind her towards the keep proper.

Sighing contentedly, Lyanna nodded. “Perfection,” she said.

“You, ah... you ladies seem to have this under control,” Cullen cut in, and nearly shriveled into his breastplate when three sets of eyes turned towards him. “I… I'll leave you to it,” he stammered, backing through the wide stable door and turning on his heel to beat a hasty retreat across the rain-soaked courtyard.

* * *

The rain ceased late in the evening, clouds clearing away to reveal the moons hanging low and heavy just above the mountains. Their silver light fell through the narrow window and across the desk in soft contrast to the warmth of the wall sconce. A cool wind drifted through, just enough to make its chill presence known but not so strong as to blow out the fat candles at the edge of the desk.

Cullen was still but for the idle tapping of one gloved finger against the arm of his chair. Chin in hand, fingers curled against his lips, the commander stared unseeing at the reports stacked before him. For most of the evening, he had been able to hurl himself into his duties; missives hastily written and passed off to couriers, reports read and notated for the Inquisitor to read upon her return from the Approach.

Now, though, in the silence that had fallen after the rain and the castle going night-still around him, he had no choice but he think about Lyanna Amell. More than a decade had passed since that brief and ill-advised infatuation— she a promising apprentice and he an eager young Templar. They had not parted on good terms. In the ensuing years, Lyanna occupied less and less of his imagination, until eventually he thought of her not at all.

Until, not a month past, Varric had appeared in Cullen's office, brandy in hand. The dwarf had teased the story from Cullen with ease, claiming Cassandra needed his memories to better aid her search for the wayward Warden Commander. In retrospect, Cullen had begun to suspect Varric of merely prying to sate his own morbid curiosity. With Lyanna dredged anew from the far-flung recesses of his mind, Cullen frequently found himself wondering idly what had become of her.

And now, as though summoned from the wilds by the mere mention of her name, Lyanna was at Skyhold. Somewhere in the castle, a stone’s throw from his own window, Lyanna was settling into bed in the best rooms Josie could drum up on short notice. Should he search her out? he wondered, and decided immediately against it. Her reaction to his presence had seemed... less than pleased. All he could manage to do was fidget in the doorway and turn red to his ears, then flee like a terrified boy. Huffing a sigh, Cullen closed his eyes and dropped his head back against his chair.

He did not stir when the tower door creaked open, accompanied by a light knock.

“Corypheus himself better be at the gates,” he grunted, eyebrows knitting in irritation. “It's very late.”

“Oh—apologies. I saw the light in the window…I can come back in the morning.”

Of course it was Lyanna. Eyes snapping open, Cullen gracelessly pushed to his feet. “No, I— no,” he said, cleared his throat, tried again, “Sorry, ma'am, please, sit. It's fine.”

She pursed her lips. “Ma'am?”

“Maker take it,” he breathed, pressing a thumb forefinger into his eyes and inhaling deeply. Twelve years gone and still she turned him into a stammering child. Ridiculous.

“I didn't mean to disturb you,” she said, her voice closer. He guessed she stood just on the other side of the desk. “Leliana told me where I might find you. I'd hoped I might catch you before you retired for the evening.”

“You're not disturbing me,” he replied, lowering his hand to look at her.

No longer was she a cloistered mage, that much was apparent in the sinewy strength of her. There was grey in her dark hair, two wings of it at her temples. Her skin had lost the near-transparent paleness particular to tower mages; her high cheekbones and what he could see of her arms bore the telltale ruddy tint of one who spent the majority of their time out-of-doors. A thin scar followed the line of her jaw, just below her right ear nearly to her chin.

She was as much a warrior as he was, now. Yet softly lit by the candles, her armor replaced by a simple woolen dress, she was painfully familiar in her demeanor and expression. Still nearly as tall as he was, still slender, though that slimness was fleshed out with new muscle. Her eyes, bright blue, were the same. Her smile and her voice were the same.

“I only...” she started, then stopped, hands going to her hips as she reconsidered her words. “It's been a very long time, Cullen.”

“It has,” he agreed. For lack of anything else to do with them, he folded his hands at the small of his back.

“I was... surprised... to see you in the stable,” she said. “I suppose I assumed you'd remained a Templar all these years, though I sometimes wondered.”

 _That_ caused something to flicker in his chest, at the hollow of his throat. “I left the order after... when I joined the Inquisition.”

The subtle lift of her brow betrayed her curiosity, but she did not pry. A small blessing; he wasn't sure he could tell her anything of his time in Kirkwall just yet. Or ever.

“Well, I won't keep you,” she said, glancing down at her fingers, twisting them together. “I just thought we deserved a better greeting.”

“Hm,” he murmured in reply. His eyes were drawn to her hands, and noticed for the first time that the last two fingers of her left hand ended at the first knuckle. He felt an odd pang of sadness at that, though still her hands were graceful even as they nervously fidgeted near her waist. Maker, nervously? Could she possibly be as off-kilter as he was? He tore his gaze away from the alluring tangle of her fingers, found her watching him.

Color rose high on his cheeks and at the tips of his ears, and he prayed the candlelight was dim enough to hide it. “Er... yes. I...”

“Good night, Cullen,” she said, an odd little smile tugging at her lips. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Yes, you too. Good night, I mean.”

Lyanna backed up a step, lingering just a moment. Then she turned and was gone, sweeping into the night as though she had never been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you everyone who followed over from mage and templar :) i hope you all enjoy this story as well!


	2. Chapter 2

Skyhold was... unique, to say the least. It wasn't on any map Lyanna could recall, nor was it referenced in any historical text. As to who had built it, even Leliana couldn't provide much of answer-- after their flight from Haven, the Inquisition had found it half pristine, half crumbling, and entirely unoccupied in the middle of the Frostbacks. The keep's architecture had none of the stocky pragmatism of a Fereldan stronghold, yet neither did it bear the overwrought elegance of an Orlesian chateau. Nestled between the two nations, it seemed Skyhold was part of none.

It was an odd place.

The library was perhaps the oddest piece she had yet found. It was a circular offshoot of the main hall, rising three stories with a rookery at the very top. The bottom floor rotunda had no books, only a desk in the very center bearing a handful of odd artifacts and sheaves of paper. The walls were home to a partially complete, massive floor-to-ceiling mural. However the mural must be recent, Lyanna thought, for it seemed to depict the Breach and the founding of the Inquisition.

The second floor library proper, though not large, was... familiar. The tightly-packed shelves clustered against the rounded outer walls, desks and chairs pushed into the spaces between, robed men and women standing around debating... the entire place could have been lifted from any Circle in Thedas. _Mages_ , she mused as she circled the room, _we're drawn to books like flies on shit._

There was even a Tranquil woman—s _un-branded, must be from Kirkwall—_ at a work table, placidly studying a collection of strange objects and marking notes in a large ledger.

Lyanna could have stepped back in time to her days in Kinloch Hold.

Completing her circuit, she slipped into the alcove closest to the stairs and looked over the shelves. Her finger ran over the spines, touching on various histories, treatises on magic, a collection of Elvhen poetry. There didn't seem to be much organization to the books, though judging by one half-empty row and the stacks on the floor someone was attempting to sort the chaos. One of the stacks, alarmingly, had a lit candle balanced on it.

Turning to peruse the shelf behind her, Lyanna paused when something caught her eye through the window. Movement in the courtyard below; three rows of Inquisition soldiers assembling before the gate. Before them stood...

Cullen.

_That_ was a face she had never expected to see again. In much the same way she occasionally, idly missed her life in the Circle, she had once or twice wondered what became of the handsome young Templar.

No longer a Templar, apparently. Still handsome, though. Not in the boyish way of it, as she knew him, but in a—somehow—taller, more angular fashion. He'd filled out, grown into his face; once-ginger hair had been sun lightened nearly blond. The scar on his lip was new, but seemed somehow fitting.

She watched as he addressed his assembled troops with an undeniable air of authority, one hand resting on his sword hilt and the other cutting the air in quick, concise gestures. This new confidence was at odds with the awkward, gentle boy she remembered; at odds, even, with the vaguely uneasy, slightly stammery man she'd spoken with the night before. He was a man clearly accustomed to command.

“There's a _dog_ in my library.”

Hamhock lifted her head from her paws, huffing a mildly annoyed _boof_ at the voice. Lyanna turned to find a man standing behind her. No Circle mage, certainly, for he was dressed in the Tevinter style; as much flash as function, with one bare shoulder and dozens of unnecessary buttons and clasps gleaming at every seam. An immaculately manicured mustache graced his upper lip.

“The Baroness might be old, but she is well trained,” Lyanna said. “I promise, she won't shit on your floor.”

“Yes, but now the place smells terribly of _Ferelden_ ,” he replied, waving a hand that glittered with golden rings. There was a lightness to his words that belied the cutting intent.

Echoing his gesture and tone, Lyanna shot back. “And I suppose you would prefer it smell of wine and blood magic, Magister..?”

The man laughed, inclining his head towards her. “Dorian Pavus,” he said, stepping forward and offering a hand in greeting. As they shook, his eyes went to the griffons embroidered at the high collar of her robes and tooled into the leather of her belt. “You must be the illusive Warden-Commander I've heard so much about.”

“That I am,” she said. At her feet, the dog resettled into a doze. “Lyanna Amell, pleased to meet you.”

“Was there something in particular you were looking for? Or--” he paused, leaned to peek out the window, cut his eyes back at Lyanna with a smirk, “--were you just enjoying the view?”

“Nothing specific,” she said, resisting to urge to glance back. “Leliana merely mentioned the library might appeal to me, and I thought I would give it a look.”

“And?”

“And she was right. It's in no discernible order, but it's quite a decent collection,” Lyanna said, but tossed a frown at the stacks on the floor. “Not too sure about using books for a candelabra though.”

“Oh, don't mind those, they're the garbage books,” Dorian sniffed, fluttering a dismissive hand at them. “Full of silverfish, mold, and uneven rhyme schemes.”

Lyanna chuckled. “I take it you are the one attempting to put some order to the chaos, then?”

“I was,” he nodded, “And then realized we could all die at any minute and I would _much_ rather be reading through this collection than sorting it.”

Rocking back on her heels, Lyanna pressed a hand to her breast. “Maker, a man after my own heart. Honestly, why do _anything_ when you could be reading?”

Dorian jabbed a finger at her. “ _Precisely._ Tell me, Warden, are you any good at chess?”

“Not even a little bit,” she admitted. “But I've an hour to kill and I wouldn't dream of saying no.”

“That's what I like to hear,” Dorian winked. “Come along then, there's a board in the garden.”

He put a hand at the small of her back as he led her towards the stairs. Behind them, Hamhock lurched to her feet. At the sound of nails clicking on the wooden floor, Lyanna glanced back at the dog; once again her eye was drawn briefly to the window. Cullen still stood below, now watching his soldiers file through the gate.

Pity she wouldn't be staying long.

* * *

Alone in the soaring War Room, tall stained-glass windows at his back casting colorful patterns across the floor, Cullen thought he might be sick. He stood at the enormous wooden slab of a war table, the heel of his hand pressed firmly against his left eye. The ever-present dull ache that lived just behind his eye socket had, in the last hour, grown to a stabbing. It felt as though someone was slowly pushing a hot brand directly into his brain—on further thought, the brand might be preferable.

With his one open eye he studied the iron markers scattered across the massive map spread across the table. His gaze flicked from Ferelden to Orlais and back, but did not really comprehend much of what he saw; the pain in his head made him nauseous. He would have to speak to Cassandra when she returned with the Inquisitor.

When the door opened to admit the three women he awaited, Cullen quickly dropped his hand from his face and squared his shoulders. Leliana surely knew about his lyrium withdrawal; the woman was so good at her job she likely knew to the whisker how many rats lived under the castle. Josephine, however, knew somewhat less.

And Lyanna... she knew nothing of his weakness and he, perhaps futilely, wished it to stay that way.

“Ever-punctual, Commander,” Josie said brightly as she swept into the room ahead of the other two.

“Templar habits,” he shrugged.

“Good afternoon,” Lyanna greeted him, with a slight incline of her head. She took a position opposite him at the table. Her mabari, huge and brindled brown-and-gold, greying at the snout, settled at her feet.

“Apologies we had to keep you waiting so long,” Leliana said, addressing the Warden.

“None needed,” Lyanna replied, smiling warmly. “I had a lovely morning in the garden with your resident Magister, though he rather unkindly destroyed me at chess.”

“He does that,” Cullen chuckled, and nearly faltered when Lyanna's smile was turned to him.

“As to the reason we are here,” Leliana interjected, folding her hands behind her back, “I assume you've come to the Inquisition for a reason?”

The Warden-Commander's face quickly grew serious. “The very same reason you reached out to me,” she said. “A great many Grey Wardens have gone missing. When I passed through on my way here, Amaranthine was empty. I have heard Montsimmard is equally unmanned. I presume, since you attempted to contact me first, you have some information on their whereabouts?”

“At the time, no,” Leliana said. “I was merely attempting to find anyone who might have information—it seemed too much of a coincidence that the Breach opened, and the Wardens immediately vanished.”

“Leliana was correct in her assumption. Varric called on Hawke, who had a Warden contact in Crestwood.” Cullen said, gloved finger tapping the location on the map.

“Might I ask who this contact was?” Lyanna inquired. Her eyes followed Cullen's gesture, then darted over the rest of the map markers.

“Jean-Marc Stroud,” Jospehine supplied. “Of the Orlesian Wardens. Do you know him?”

Lyanna shook her head. “The name doesn't ring any bells.”

“Stroud offered some insight into the disappearances,” Leliana continued. “It is... not good.”

As the spymaster spoke, Cullen tapped a finger against the hilt of his sword, busying his hand so he wouldn't rub his eye again. Barely halfway through the day, and Cullen was... not tired, exactly. He'd slept well enough the night before, for once. Weary, perhaps, was the word for it. Worn down by some combination of the headache, the interminable stack of reports on his desk, the nagging worry that Corypeus might just turn up and wipe them all out. The knowledge that there whole crates of lyrium in a store room somewhere in the keep, nigh unguarded; just waiting for the mages' enchantments or the handful of Templars still left.

Once or twice he entertained the idea that he could feel it, the whole glowing lot of it, feel it whispering to him. That if he tried hard enough he could pinpoint it like a bat hunting in the dark despite, at his own insistence, not having the slightest idea where it was kept.

“Commander?”

Josephine's pointed tone and raised eyebrows suggested this was not the first time she had addressed him. Across the table Lyanna was peering at him strangely, one arm folded across her stomach, the fingers of the opposite hand curled against her lips.

“Sorry, I ah—was merely thinking we could divert troops from Redcliffe once we have confirmation on the Wardens' location,” he said quickly. Not entirely a lie; he had been considering the maneuver for a week.

“A sound suggestion,” Josie said slowly.

“Yes,” Leliana agreed, eyes narrowing, “But not exactly the matter at hand.”

“In fairness, it will be at hand sooner rather than later,” Lyanna said, pulling her gaze away from Cullen. “Stroud was _sure of_ the Orlesian Warden-Commander's great plan?”

“We have no reason to disbelieve him,” Leliana said. “And my scouts have turned up little evidence to the contrary.”

Lyanna sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose and then dropping her hands to her hips. “Clarel,” she muttered. “I never thought her to be so--”

“Stupid?” Leliana suggested.

“Desperate, more like,” Cullen said.

“I was going to say 'imaginative,' but I suppose desperate and stupid apply as well,” Lyanna finished. “I don't know her particularly well, but she never struck me as... _creative_ enough to turn to blood magic in an attempt to end the Blight. Forever, no less.”

Leliana leaned forward, interest perked. “You think someone else is behind it?”

“I couldn't tell you,” Lyanna shrugged.

“It could be Corypheus,” Leliana continued, half to herself.

“Or it could be the last, flailing attempts of a hundred Called wardens attempting to keep themselves alive,” Lyanna said flatly. “The _why_ of it doesn't much concern me, yet. Where are they now, the Inquisitor and Stroud?”

“The Western Approach,” Cullen said. He gestured to the Inquisitor's personal marker on the map, the burning eye-and-dagger wrought delicately in iron. “Some number of the Wardens were gathering there, at a Tevinter ritual ruin.”

“They certainly don't do things subtly, do they?” Lyanna said absently, eyes focused on the western portion of the map. After a moment she rapped her knuckles twice on the table.

“Well,” she started, jaw set, “thank you for your help and hospitality, brief as it was. I suppose I'm off to the Western Approach.”

All three advisors were stunned, but Cullen felt as though his already-questionable stomach might fall through the floor. She'd blown back into his life, and just as quickly...“You're leaving already?”

“It's a long ride, that far into Orlais,” she replied, half an apology hidden there. “If I have any hope of catching up—”

“You don't.”

Lyanna blinked at Leliana, who just shrugged. “The Inquisitor left Skyhold three and a half weeks ago. Whatever was going to happen in the Approach, it's likely done. She's on her way back by now. Even if she isn't, by the time _you_ make it to the desert...”

“Alright, alright,” Lyanna sighed, holding up a hand. “You've made your point. What would you have me do, then? Sit on my hands, while my order possibly wipes itself out?”

“We'll know more when Inquisitor Lavellan returns,” Josephine soothed. “Any day, we'll receive word or she'll be back herself. Until then, think of it as... a respite, from your long months on the road. I understand you were quite far afield, until your return to Ferelden.”

The Warden-Commander chewed the inside of her lip, staring hard at the map. While he understood her eagerness to chase the errant wardens, Cullen hoped Lyanna might stay even a few more days. What he would _do_ with those few extra days he couldn't much say, but...

“I suppose there's not much else to it, then,” she said finally. “But if we've still no word from her in... call it four days, I'm riding after them.”

“Honestly if we still haven't heard anything in four days, I'll be going with you,” Cullen said. This time, he _did_ manage to keep himself from turning pink when Lyanna grinned at him.

The Warden-Commander's business concluded for the time being, they turned to other Inquisition matters. Cullen shuffled markers around the board to account for routine troop movements, half an ear to his colleagues' discussion. According to Josephine, there were rumors around the Orlesian court that Celene was at last considering formally inviting the Inquisitor to Halamshiral. As always Leliana suggested the bloodiest route possible, but Josie had already greased a few palms. Lyanna shared what news she had gathered on her journey to Skyhold, much of it out of date but a few tidbits seemingly of particular interest to ambassador or spymaster.

After a time their conversation turned more casual, and they made motions to go their separate ways for the remainder of the day.

“Commander, if I might have a word before you go?”

Cullen, mind already on the next task, looked around to find Lyanna once again watching him with that inscrutable blue gaze. “Of, of course,” he said.

Leliana and Josephine were already into the hallway, but he distinctly noticed the spymaster pause. The door swung shut, and Cullen couldn't help but picture Leliana with her ear pressed directly to the wood. Pushing the image from his mind, he addressed Lyanna.

“Is there something you need, ah...” What did he even call her? Lyanna? She had used _his_ title, for some reason, so... “er, Warden-Commander?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Please, just Lyanna,” she said. “The title is... it's too much.”

“But you--”

“It seemed appropriate, with the other two still here,” she laughed. “In retrospect, it was also too much.”

Half a shrug. “A bit, perhaps,” he said, matching her lighter tone. “What did you want to talk about?”

Her smile pressed into a thin line, her brow briefly knitting. A moment's hesitation, then she started around the table. He stiffened as she approached, fingers reflexively tightening on his sword—not that meant to draw it, only that it was an anchor. She stopped just to his left, perching on the edge of the heavy table. Folding her hands in her lap, she fixed him with a level stare.

“When did you stop taking it?” she asked, softly.

“I... what? Stop taking what?” The question was a deflection only. He knew, of course, exactly what she meant.

“The lyrium.” Her voice was gentle, careful, like she was worried he might bolt. It wasn't exactly an unfounded fear. “Has it been very long?”

A lie would be easy enough. A simple excuse to put her off and walk away. But a lie would do him no good; he was a terrible liar, and she would see through it. He suspected she was far too polite to push the issue, but a lie here would damage whatever tenuous relationship they still had.

“Six months,” he said, plainly. “Give or take a few weeks. In Haven, after the temple... when this we formed the Inquisition.”

Cullen scrubbed a hand over his face, the headache that had begun to retreat during the meeting now surging back to the fore. Perhaps he didn't have the luxury of waiting for Cassandra to return, to get her opinion. “How could you tell? Is it so obvious?”

“The tremor in your hand,” she said.

The tremor...? He looked down, splayed his fingers, and saw she was right. There was the slightest tremble, which he immediately covered by clenching his fist back around the hilt of his sword.

“To be fair,” she said, placating, “I was watching for it. You kept closing one eye, like you've got a pain behind it. I doubt it's obvious to someone who doesn't know what they're looking for.”

“And _you_ do?” The words were sharper than he intended, grinding through an ever-present layer of irritation around the topic of lyrium.

She seemed unfazed, however. “In fact, I do. Lyrium can be very hard to come by on the road, and I've recruited no small number of Templars, current and former, into the Grey Wardens. I'm familiar with lyrium withdrawal.”

He couldn't help but bristle, clenching his jaw and furrowing his brow. This was not how he anticipated this conversation going.

“Clearly, this isn't something you want to talk about,” she said quickly, lifting her hands in entreaty. “I don't mean to salt a new wound. But I can help you, if you'll let me.”

“I have duties to attend to, Lyanna. I have recruits to train, inspections to carry out, I have a stack of reports on my desk almost as tall as you are--”

“Cullen.”

Her hand was on his chestplate, fingers curling over the upper edge of it and nearly brushing his skin. Looking down, he saw a pair of heavy rings on her first and third fingers—one silver, the griffon seal of the wardens, the other gold, the rampant hounds of house Theirin.

“Your dedication is admirable,” she said, tapping her thumb against the steel. “But _none_ of your duties will be seen to if you collapse.”

He made a noncommittal noise, acutely aware of how close her fingertips were to his throat. She was right, he knew she was right, but he couldn't concentrate.

“Go, see to your work,” she said, her hand dropping away as she stood. “Find me later, when you have a spare moment.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

The room was warm, bordering on uncomfortable for Cullen in his heavy cloak and armor. Or perhaps it wasn't the room, just his own body's growing inability to regulate its temperature. He should have just called it an early night; would have, if not for his promise to meet Lyanna. A question to the guards on his door pointed him to the tavern, where he now stood casually sweating in the doorway.

The Chargers were boisterously occupying their usual corner, bathing the tavern in raucous laughter. A scattering of other patrons filled the remaining tables, but not to bursting—it was far enough past the dinner rush, but not so late that the place had emptied entirely. Near the staircase Maryden dutifully plucked away at her mandolin, warbling out her latest ballad.

At a table in the far corner, Lyanna sat opposite... Dorian, based on the upward sweep of hair and the naked shoulder. He couldn't hear them over the tavern din, but judging by Lyanna's animated gestures, the two were having a lively conversation. She seemed at ease, the collar on her blue-grey robes open to the collarbone, sleeves pushed back to the elbow.

Maybe she wouldn't mind if he retired early after all, and instead found her in the morning. He wouldn't want to intrude--

Too late. She spotted him, held up her hand in acknowledgment. Dorian cast a glance over his shoulder, just long enough to register the commander's arrival, before returning to his conversation. Sighing, Cullen started towards their table. There was no avoiding it now.

“—we Tevinters are _nothing_ if not narcissists when it comes to—among other things—our magical education. Honestly, 'have I read Mareno,' what sort of question...?”

“ _Well_ , in that case you are aware of what your own magisters have to say on the subject!”

 _Not_ a conversation then. A debate. Facilitated by the empty wine bottle and its half-full brother on the table, by the rosy flush on Lyanna's cheeks and the half-lidded gleam in Dorian's eyes. Cullen paused a few steps away, waiting for some sort of break in the wall of words.

“I _am_ aware,” Dorian said, holding up one vaguely unsteady finger. “And six months ago, I would've agreed that the Fade exists as some sort of-- of collective unconsciousness, a higher plane of existence for our baser brains--”

Lyanna leaned forward, elbows on the table, dropping her chin into her hand. “And now?”

“Tell me, Warden, have you _seen_ a Fade rift? Up close?”

“Not yet, no,” she admitted.

Dorian slapped a palm on the table. “Oh you will, and then you'll have the right of it. A hole rips in, in, I don't know, in reality. In the Veil, I suppose. A _hole_ , clearly leading to another place, and demons—actual, physical demons, mind you—spill out of it like wasps from a kicked hive. Not summoned by any of our wayward colleagues, or leaking through where the Veil is thin. They simply spring, fully formed and disgusting, out of the air.”

“Sounds unpleasant.”

“ _Deeply_.”

“Perhaps, then, the Fade could be both physical _and_ metaphysical,” Lyanna suggested, sitting back on the bench, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “Or, perhaps, it was _made_ so by the breach—”

Quietly, Cullen cleared his throat in hopes of catching their attention. Both mages looked up as though they had, in fact, forgotten his recent arrival, and blessedly ceased talking. He'd only overhead thirty seconds of it, yet their discussion only worsened the headache that had finally abated. 

“So the man has finally descended from his holy tower,” Dorian said, with a sweep of his arm and a broad grin.

Cullen narrowed his eyes, half in confusion and half against the growing ache. “Pardon me?”

“You're quite pious, and you live in a tower with a gigantic hole in it. Your holey tower,” the magister explained, slowly. Across the table, Lyanna gave an unflattering snort into her wine.

“I don't want to interrupt, I'll just find you in the morning,” he said, nodding to the warden. It was far too late in the evening to be mocked.

“No, no, you're not interrupting at all,” she said, turning a sodden smile on him. “We've talked ourselves in the same circle for at least an hour now.”

“As would befit our stations. Mages, in all things, circular.” The line was joined by a smug smile into his own wine. Lyanna groaned. “That being said, I think I must retire.”

He pushed to his feet, swayed precariously, held up a hand to ward off his companion's concern. Reaching across the table, he plucked up the only partially empty bottle.

“Thank you for a wonderful evening,” Lyanna said, with a broad, if slightly crooked, smile. She stood as well, sliding around the table to start for the door. “Very few opportunities for such discussion on the road.”

“Yes, it has been quite diverting,” Dorian agreed, linking arms with her. Cullen fell into step just behind, only catching snatches of their chatter.

Outside, in the cool night air, they stopped again, inevitably to continue talking. “Come to the library sometime. If you ask nicely, maybe I'll tell you all about my experiences with temporal magic.”

“You're joking.” Lyanna turned an incredulous look on Dorian, dropping his arm.

“I assure you, I have never told a joke in my life,” Dorian replied with a haughty tilt of his chin.

“'Holy Tower'?” she replied.

“I assure you, I have told a single joke in my entire life,” he said, jabbing the wine bottle at her. “Good night, Warden. I leave you in the capable hands of our intrepid commander.”

“Don't finish that Antivan red without me,” she called after Dorian, wobbling off into the night. She watched him for a moment, then turned to Cullen.

“Maker, I'm sorry to keep you waiting,” she said, fluttering a hand in his direction. “Dorian is very chatty, you know. As am I, I suppose, in my cups. Either way, it was meant to be one glass, over dinner, to tie up a conversation we were having in the library, and... well. Here we are, three bottles later and it's well past dark. Now, how are you this fine evening?”

It took him a moment to realize she had completely stopped talking, and he uttered a hasty, “Well enough.”

“Good, that's good,” she said. “Follow me, then, I have a few things back in my room for your... predicament.”

At the base of the stairs leading inside she stopped, squinting upwards. The main hall loomed out of the darkness, high windows eerily lit from within by guttering torchlight. A shadow moved on the upper balcony, a guard on their rounds or Vivienne up late. When Cullen paused next to her, Lyanna slipped a hand through the crook of his elbow.

“Don't know if I can—” she waved up the steps, and he understood.

“You two had a pleasant evening, then,” Cullen said, as they began their ascent.

She hummed an affirmation, her other hand coming to rest just above the first on his bicep. “Oh, very much. Too much, probably.”

At the top of the stairs, she did not release his arm. He couldn't _actually_ feel the heat of her hands through the heavy leather of his coat, but he imagined he could as they passed through the silent great hall. The guards on the doors and at the throne said nothing, only acknowledged their passing with cursory salutes to their commander, but Cullen knew. He knew with a sinking certainty that by morning the rumor mill would be churning full-force with the news that he had been spotted escorting the Warden-Commander to her rooms at an indecent hour. Thankfully, once Lyanna steered him through a side door, they encountered no other curious eyes along the way.

In a few short turns, they arrived in a long hallway with evenly-spaced matching doors; the guests' quarters. Producing an iron key from a pocket in her dress, Lyanna unlocked her door and breezed inside. Cullen lingered just outside the open doorway, a respectful distance should anyone come along.

A fire lit the room dimly from the small hearth, joined shortly by a collection of fat beeswax candles on the mantle that Lyanna lit with a flick of her wrist. At the sudden blaze of light, a dark mass shifted at the end of the canopied bed in the corner. The mabari, lifting its heavy head and yawning widely to show a collection of wicked white teeth.

“Should be just a moment,” Lyanna said, going to the dressing table and shuffling through the items strewn across it.

“It's no rush,” Cullen replied absently, attention completely on the massive hound as it hopped from the mattress and ambled towards him, claws clicking on the stone. The dog circled him twice, sniffing at his cloak and his boots. Once done it sat at his knee, nosing into the palm of his hand.

“You're a friendly one,” he cooed, crouching to scratch the dog behind its ears and under its jowls. It licked at his cheek, stump of a tail thudding against the floor. Whether Lyanna could help him or not, this alone was worth the trip. “Yes you are. What's your name?”

“That lazy lump is the Baroness Hamhock,” Lyanna said. Looking up, Cullen found her standing nearby, a motherly sort of pride on her face. “Given half a chance she'll sleep sixteen hours a day and eat twice her weight in chicken, but she's the friendliest dog in all of Thedas. Too friendly, perhaps, for a _war_ dog.”

Cullen stood, hand still on the dog's head. “No such thing. She's just lovely,” he said, and Hamhock rewarded him with a lick of his fingers.

“She is that,” she agreed. Apparently satisfied, the dog shuffled away, returning to her spot at the end of the bed. Lyanna clicked her tongue, repeating, “Lazy.”

She brought her attention back to Cullen, and held up a small pouch. “Your garden left a lot to be desired, but from that and my own supplies, I managed to drum up a few things for you. It's not much, but I assume Inquisition supply lines can procure you more as you need.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“Of course,” she replied, with a small incline of her head. “Now, I''m... _quite_ drunk,” she continued, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment and swaying slightly, “but I'm fairly certain I can explain it all to you. In any case, I labeled everything.”

Only slightly slurring, she quickly and concisely instructed him on the contents of the bag. Elfroot and willowbark for pain; mint leaves and ginger root steeped in a tea or chewed straight for nausea; spindleweed to sleep; drink plenty of water and don't over exert yourself. He nodded along, hoping to remember it all—he would have to write it down when he got back to his tower.

Which he would have to do soon, he realized, to quell the rumors before they gained too much traction. Before the guard change. Let them see him return quickly, before there was enough time to do anything... untoward.

“Again, thank you,” he said, taking the offered herbs. “You didn't have to go out of your way...”

“Really, it's nothing,” she replied, smiling drowsily. Leaning against the doorjamb, she crossed her arms over her chest. “I'm only here a few days, may as well help where I can. Tomorrow I might put some work into that tragic little herb garden. Sleep well, Cullen.”

“And you. Good night,” he said, turning to leave.

 _Only a few days_. That gave him pause. Only a few days, and one way or another she would be gone again. There was no time to hem and haw over it. Turning back, he caught her just before the door closed.

“Lyanna,” he said, hastily, before the resolve left him.

Ancient hinges creaked as she swung the door wide once more. “Yes?”

“Would you, ah... will you have dinner? Tomorrow evening?”

“I assume, so, yes,” she said slowly, tilting her head in confusion.

Cullen closed his eyes. He dropped his chin to his chest, drawing a steadying breath before trying again. “With me, I mean,” he amended. “Would you like to have dinner... with me.”

Her eyebrows lifted, her lips briefly pursing in a curious expression. “I would like that,” she said. “The tavern, or...?”

“Yes, I think so, the tavern,” he replied. The courage fled him then, and he searched desperately for something else to say.

Blessedly she broke the silence, with a tilted smile and a murmured, “I look forward to it.” 

 


End file.
